


Orgasmatron

by TeaRex



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Sensual Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4030891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/pseuds/TeaRex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you ever wondered the weakness of a super-fast super-human?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One evening found yourself and Darcy lounging about in one of the more forgotten communal rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters. It was one of smaller rooms but big enough to allow a three-seater couch and two single arm chairs. The lights were dimmed, heightening the relaxing mood you were both seeking. Darcy was sprawled along the couch, lazily typing away on her phone; you suspect answering the for-longing texts of that one guy she met in London. You had made yourself comfortable, legs draped over one side of the armchair and your back pressed against the other, a lamp illuminating your current novel of choice. Now and then, Darcy would purposefully uttered a sigh or groan; evident of either frustration, boredom or both. Ignoring her pitiful whining, you continued to pursue your book. Sighing once more, Darcy rolls over onto her stomach and watches you read, her lips pouting ever slightly.

“(Y/N)?” Her voice drawled. You hum in reply, never taking your from eyes from the page but acknowledging her. “(Y/N).” She repeats, drawing out the vowel in an annoying whine.

“Darcyyy.” Mimicking her in reply.

“I'm bored.” She states. Finally addressing her, you look over, eyebrow raised. “But that's not all; my shoulders ache from slaving away at my desk, I have no social life and my brain hurts from compiling Jane's endless research. I don't know how she can be so boring for endless hours a day.” Really, it was the same complaints she had at the end of every day.

“What do you want me to do?” You questioned and watch in fascination as Darcy's expression visualises her mind filtering different ideas. When her face lights up, you know that shes thought of something.

“Do the thing!” She exclaims. Deadpanned, you look her with no idea to what she talking about.

“The thing?”

“Yea! Give me one of your _sensual _head massages!” She elaborates excitedly. You groan in response, having made yourself comfortable and not wanting to put effort into anything else for the remainder of the evening. “Please, please, please! You're so good at it and it's just what I need. I'll owe you, like, two coffees!” Negotiating as only Darcy would. There were only two options: to accept or listen to Darcy’s incessant pleading should you refuse. Sighing in defeat, you rise from the chair and step around behind the couch as Darcy proceeds to excitedly rearrange herself; head leaning back on the cushioned surface of the head rest. The couch itself had a low back, enabling a person to lean their head back and look to the ceiling.__

__“Make that three coffees.” Your voice non-negotiating as you lean your head over to meet her eyes. She grins and nods._ _

__“You strike a hard bargain, sir.” She says playfully. Really, you expected no such payment but hey, a free coffee never went a-stray. Gathering her hair, you begin to brush your fingers through it, smoothing out the strands. Somehow, Darcy's hair remained knot free despite being free following the majority of the time. Thick, healthy and silky; it was to be envied. Fanning her long locks over the edge of the couch, you start by running your fingers from the hairline of her forehead, down through until the end of her mane. Repeating this several times, you lean slightly and note that Darcy has since closed her eyes, her expression now content. Next, you position the tips of your fingers along her hairline, spanning from the base of her ears to the crest of her forehead. Applying pressure at your finger tips, your fingers glide slowly from the edges and make their way to the middle, meeting at the crown. You hear a 'hmm' of happiness from Darcy and smile. You repeat this technique, applying the pressure to her scalp, massage the area. Gently, you brush your fingers through her hair again, smoothing it out. Encouragingly, you title her head forward, her chin now pointed downwards towards her chest. Using the same technique, you position your finger tips again but this time around the base of her head. With a generous amount of pressure, your fingers slide upwards, making sure to pass right behind her ears._ _

__“Ooooh.” Darcy sighs softly and this time you can't help but chuckle. The same technique is repeated, alternating positions and earning sighs of pleasure and content from Darcy. Her head still titled, you brush her hair over one shoulder, exposing her neck. There you carefully pull at strands of hair from edge of her hair line. Again, the technique is all about pressure. It would look like you were trying on pull her hair out, but in grouped sections, the simulated area send small explosive tremors, scattering down along the neck, the act soothing and relaxing._ _

__It has since been just twelve minutes since the commencement of Darcy's therapeutic session, noting the time on the clock on the far side of the room when the moment is broken when the door to the room forcefully opens. You jump slightly, looking to the intruder. Pietro stands there, arms stiff at his side as he critically assess what he has discovered. To anyone, the scene before them would suspect; Darcy limp on the couch, chin rested against her chest, arms flopped by her sides; then there is you, positioned above her, hands hoovering above her head and a 'I just got caught doing something bad' look._ _

__Pietro looks between the both of you, expression growing more curious and confused by the second, brows frowning. You honestly wonder what is running through his mind at the moment._ _

__“Umm?” You manage to say. At the expression, Pietro's ever growing confused eyes rest on you._ _

__“Am I interrupting something?” He asks cautiously, accent interlinking the words._ _

__“Yes!” Darcy growls and you almost laugh because it confirms she isn't dead which you believe Pietro was starting to suspect. His brows rise in surprise. “You better make this fast, White-Top and considering it's you, no doubt you can.” Darcy voice is muffled, the tilt of her head suppressing her throat and her hair unceremoniously smothering her face._ _

__“The mad scientist is looking for you.” He replies, almost looking put out for being the errand boy._ _

__“Can you be more specific? If you hadn't noticed, there's a few of those around here.” She replies, irritation clearly evident. Her irritation either goes unnoticed or Pietro just doesn't care and he replies in a bored manner._ _

__“Very short, crazy, brunette woman.” He describes. You can't help but snicker because it's a simple yet accurate description of Jane Foster and anyone could deduce it's her. Darcy in turn growls in frustration, flipping her hair back, whacking you in the face._ _

__Gathering her phone and bag, she grumbles, “This better be some major science-y breakthrough considering I have retired for the night!” She rises and smooths out her clothes and then looks pointedly at you. “That was one coffees worth.” Fare-welling you as she stalks from the room, relaxation reduced to zero, pissed off mode; seven and rising._ _

__You watch her leave, smiling in humor, Pietro too, watching her leave. Once her stomping footsteps are no longer heard, you're now acutely aware that Pietro remains in the room. He's turns back to you, curiosity again very evident. You clear your throat in an effort to break the silence, standing from your leaning position against the back of the couch. About to go back to your deserted novel, you are halted when surprisingly, Pietro asks a question._ _

__“What were you doing to the angry assistant?” You can't control the snort that escapes at his description of Darcy, because in some ways it was true._ _

__“What do you think I was doing?” Brows rising. The counter question is meant simultaneously as a effort to be funny and in honest curiosity, as you're eager to know what he thought was transpiring when he interrupted Darcy and yourself. However, despite the effort to be humourous, he doesn't reply, continuing to stand by the door, arms crossed across his chest, expression blank. The silence encroaches again and you jut your jaw in exasperation. 'Either I'm not funny or jokes aren't a genetic trait in Sokovia.' muttering internally._ _

__“It was a massage.” You say in defeat._ _

__“A massage?” Again, his brows furrowing together in skepticism. ‘Those brows sure do get a work out.’ mentally commentating._ _

__“A head massage.” Being specific. The change in Pietro is instantaneous, expression alight and his posture straightens in attention. You watch in fascination as he comprehends the reveal, eyes glancing away from you._ _

__“I would try this.” And before you draw a breath to reply, he is seated on the couch, taking Darcy's previous position, stretching his legs out and resting his runner fitted heels against the floor._ _

__“...You want a massage?” Shocked and just as skeptical as he once was._ _

__“Is what I said, yes.” And your silent again, trying to comprehend what is happening. “Guys don't usually admit to such things, ya know, wanting massages and stuff.”_ _

__“I do not understand?” He honestly sounded like a five year old questioning the way of the world. Sympathetically you try to elaborate your intended meaning._ _

__“Something to do with being emasculated and all that bullshit.” Shrugging nonchalantly._ _

__“Emasculated?” He questions, his accent stumbling over the pronunciation of the newly heard word._ _

__“Making you less of a 'man'.” Trying to define the word in a simplified form. You can only imagine his expression as he considers the word, his mind flickering at a superhuman pace._ _

__“If a pleasurable experience, why deny this?” His matter-of-fact reply was the hundred dollar answer to one of life's endless questions. He doesn't wait for your reply and continues, “The assistance spoke of payment, no?” You realise then that he had heard Darcy's comment about the coffee._ _

__“Ah, this one is on me as I can't guarantee you’ll like it.” He doesn't reply. “Ok, well, I'll just get started then.” And why did you sound so hesitant. This was just like any other time with Darcy or your other few ‘patrons’ as you now called them. Gingerly, you start to brush his hair back with your fingers. The mop-top white hair, you noted, felt a little dry, especially at the ends. You hum to yourself, suspecting that his hair wasn't invulnerable to being wind-beaten. You thoughts trail to the bottle of hydrating oil in your bathroom, or would that be over stepping a boundary? Unlike Darcy's hair, Pietro's is knotted but not overly so. You surprise yourself with how gently you pick stands from the knotted clumps, slowly untangling the white mass._ _

__Pietro has not said anything since you commenced and you're not even sure if he finding this relaxing. His hair now mostly tangle free, you then proceed to commence the next step in the practiced routine. You place all eight finger tips and thumbs around his hair line, encompassing the semi-circle top-half of his head. With a small exhale, readying yourself, you apply pressure to his scalp and draw your finger tips across his head to meet in the middle, at the crown. You note the natural oils of his scalp, easing the friction of your fingers. Again, you repeat the action, applying more pressure this time, hesitation now gone._ _

__The base of his head in your next target. Spreading your finger tips across the nape of his neck, you press against him, finger tips dragging upwards, focusing those pressure points and nerve endings. If you were doing this right, Pietro should feel pleasurable tingles and electrical pulses sporadically spreading across his head and traveling down his back. You don’t quit catch it but you hear him mutter something, and you suspect it was Sokovian. Repeating the action, you listen intently and sure enough, although not the same phrase, Pietro undoubtedly groans something in his native tongue. A swell of pride and satisfaction builds in your chest because always your end goal was to please the recipient._ _

__Scooping his white mop-top into one hand, you pull backwards towards yourself and earning a small 'hmm'. Then separating his hair down the mid-line, you gather one half and repeat the action, pulling hard but achingly slow and do the same to the other side. Having spent significant time with each technique, you alternate between kneading his scalp, pulling random sections of hair, making small circular massage movements around his ears and up his temple, kneading the flesh of his neck and feeling the tension of his taunt muscles dissipate until the area no longer needs attending to._ _

__You finish up by lazily running your fingers through his hair, combing the white locks. Leaning over to check Pietro state, you see his eyes are closed, jaw slack. You suppress a laugh; another victim succumbing._ _

__“Pietro.” The whisper is barely audible. He doesn't stir, so you repeat again, a little louder this time. “Pietro?” Still nothing. Taking hold of a shoulder you shake him, not forcefully but enough for him to notice. Leaning further over the couch you, you realise in growing horror that he's in more than a relaxed state, but he seriously couldn't be asleep._ _

__'Holy fuck, did I kill him?!' The thought is beyond ridiculous and improbable but not impossible. The longer you think on it, your imagination conjures more ludicrous explanations . About to grab his shoulder again and shake the living day lights out of him - if there are any left - once again, you’re halted mid action when the door is opened and in walks Wanda. Your heart is pounding; if he were dead, the last person you wanted to see the the overly protective, reality bending twin sister. Staring at her, you watch as she pauses in the doorway, observing the scene before her._ _

__“He...I...it was just a massage and now he's non-responsive!” The words tumble from your mouth in a rushed explanation. You watch in growing suspense as Wanda looks at you, head tilted, eyes glazed yet piercing._ _

__'Oh God, is she reading my mind to confirm I didn't intentionally kill her brother!' This, perhaps, would be first and only time you're not opposed to Wanda's mind-reading abilities, if it means acquitting you of homicide and her wrath, you're all for it._ _

__The look is brief, her eyes gaining focus and you wonder if it's evident of her pulling from the invasion of your mind. She looks to her brother, expression neutral and without rage, you note. The silence keeps you on edge, still halted in the position she found you; are you even breathing? You catch a small twitch of her mouth, was that a smile?_ _

__“Brother.” her voice monotone, the Sokovian accent rolling the r's exotically. You're not sure of what power the shorter Maximoff Twin has over her twelve minute elder brother, but amazingly, it rouses him. You watch as he groans sleepily, eyes blinking and unfocused. “Pietro.” Wanda says again and Pietro sits forward, placing elbows to his thighs and resting his head in hands as he rubs his face. Anyone would think the guy was waking from an intense night of excessive drinking. Watching the now conscience Avenger, you carefully step around the couch to where you book is and grab for it._ _

__“Eh, Wanda?” Pietro replies groggily, still orientating himself, “What happened?” looking to her as he always did, seeking answers only she held._ _

__“You are late, Brother,” She says, scolding him, “You did not meet me as you said you would. I came looking for you.” Wanda explains. Pietro looks at her between his parted fingers, trying to comprehend her words._ _

__You observe the exchange while slowly stepping towards the only exit to the room, keeping your distance from Wanda for you still worry there is a repercussion awaiting you for making her Brother late._ _

__“Do not worry,” Wanda says, although still looking at her brother, you're aware that the comment is directed at you, “Pietro, although gifted, is human like you and I. Even from a young age he has always enjoyed someone brushing his hair.” You're skeptical of Wanda's use of the term human, for at times - of all the Avengers including Thor - she is far from it._ _

__“Well, this” nervously wetting your lips, “Is the most extreme form of enjoyment I've ever seen.” Gesturing to Pietro's still groggy state. Sure, Darcy and others were comfortable and relaxed but never before had you put someone to sleep, quite literally._ _

__“It happens from time to time,” she says distantly, as if reminiscing on those other times like they were fond memories, “He was just in a - how would you say it - a catatonic state of relaxation.” And you blanched at her use of the word 'catatonic' because if she was trying to reassure you - which you suspect she was - personally it wouldn't have been your chosen term, “Just so you are aware for next time.” And she turns to you then and smiles; small, soft yet eerie. “Brother, should you not thank your 'masseuse'.” Humour now clearly evident in her voice, and you wonder is she is mocking you. Both yourself and Wanda turn your attention to Pietro. Even in the dimly lit room, his blue eyes are piercing, having not noticed the intensity of his stare on you. Again, you're starting to feel nervous in the company of both Twins._ _

__“You have magic fingers, (Y/N),” he says as he leans back against the couch, stare never wavering from your figure, “We will have to resume again another time, no?” A smirk tugging at his lips. Despite his compliment, which you assume is his version of thanks, you can't help but note the certainty in his voice, like he's sure that you will extend the offer again._ _

__“Ah, no probs.” Unsure of how to reply, “Seek me out if you ever want to be knocked out again.” Chuckling awkwardly at your, again, failed attempt at humour. It's then that you realise that you just assured Pietro of your willingness to give him another massage and you kick yourself mentally._ _

__“As the American saying goes: you can count on it.” Unconsciously you gulp, realising you have just cemented your fate. Backing from the room, wanting to put the weird and awkward moment behind you, you say quick farewell._ _

__“Well, sorry about the unconscious thing.” Pietro’s intensity never wavering, smile in-place. The Twins, you note, have successfully mastered that unnerving smile that they commonly share. “And sorry for holding him up.” directing a quick look to Wanda. Briskly, you walk down the corridor, leaving the odd situation behind you. Finally beyond their hearing, a laugh explodes from you throat. 'What the hell just happened?!' and you shake her head at the though. 'Wait till I tell, Darcy.' anticipating her reaction. So, you walk hurriedly in the direction of Jane Foster's lab, a skip to your step. You make a mental note, filing it among other stored facts; Pietro Maximoff: weaknesses - hair tugging. You laugh again, too hard to resist making the innuendo._ _

__Fin!_ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2? You didn't see that coming?

S.H.I.E.L.D never sleeps.

The Earth is shadowed from the Sun as it continues its rotation, bringing the inevitable conclusion of another twenty-four hour cycle. The veil creeps across the spherical surface, swallowing one half and leaving it vulnerable to the far-reaching void of space and without light. Darkness is a lullaby, ushering most to seek their bed until the dawn of the next day. This instinctual programming is, however, redundant for a select few.

Whether it be one of many strategically located headquarters, or global mobile units, these individuals keep their base of operations alive, twenty-four hours a day, all days of the year and following. The task of ensuring worldwide security and the safety of Earth's inhabitants is not a full time job but a driving purpose requiring unwavering dedication.

Constant communication and the exchange of intelligence; the organisation of espionage; the supervision of internal and external operations; and the surveillance of external media outlets and civilian sources. Consequently, there is a constant thriving energy, endless noise and compiling workload.

S.H.I.E.L.D never sleeps.

It is for this reason that at the conclusion of every shift, you aim to revitalise your exhausted physical and mental capabilities. The remedy for your efforts is relaxation and quiet; solitude an irreplaceable companion. It had become habit to seek that which the neglected communal lounge can provide. Today's journey is slow but not without purpose, longing for deafening silence and to be consumed by the plush cushions of your favourite arm-chair. If only for a couples of hours, you wanted to be oblivious to the world beyond this room.

On entry, already your mind starts to calm, observing the tranquility of the deserted room. With routine steps, you walk the carpeted path, relishing at the thought of slumping into pure comfortability. It is because you are preoccupied with self indulgence that you fail to notice an intruder in your haven.

"Hello."

The unexpected greeting ignites a rush of adrenaline, kick-starting a frightful reaction. You jerk, wiping around to acknowledge the unidentified individual. Lounging on the opposite single arm-chair, a lazy grin greets your bug-eyed expression.

“Shit!” you exclaim. Finding Pietro sprawled so casually quickly morphs your fright to curiosity at his unexpected presence.

"Did I scare you?" he asks cheekily. Your reaction is evident enough but Pietro regales in the fun of asking.

"What would you expect?" you reply curtly.

“I thought, perhaps, you would at least be happy to see me.” He feints a hurt expression but the comment baits for a retaliation. While his intention is deliberately obvious, you decide to indulge in the tet-e-tet.

Your arms across to assert a stance of indifference but also to shield your nerves from your keen onlooker, which you would profusely deny should anyone suggest otherwise!

“You haven't given me no reason to be.”

“I would give you one.” The words fall from a devilish smile.

Despite his insufferable cockiness, its on the verge of earning Pietro the reaction he's aiming for. Said reaction being the threatening smile which you wrestle by painfully gritting your teeth and you prickle with irritation at being so easily affected. To save face, you turn away, dropping your bag to the floor; the moment utilised to rein your high-school flutters.

While you had no authority to to dictate the actions of others, especially in light of this being communal ground, it was safe to assume that Pietro Maximoff had no intention for allowing a relaxing evening as you had originally intended. To cut short further tantilising conversation and save yourself from ridicule, you redirect him with assertiveness.

"Where you looking for something?" 'Were you looking for me,' is what you want to ask but that would be presumptuous.

He doesn't reply immediately, taking the time to observe critically, seeing the illusion of your faked confidence. You hated that. It was commonly becoming a Maximoff trait as witnessed by his sister, Wanda.

“You are very-” and he pauses momentarily to find a suitable word, “direct.”

“Well with your shocking example of flirting, this conversation will go nowhere.”  

The retort is said in good humour but not without truth. Pietro was a flirt and used his (debatable) talents for personal gain and from what you suspected, for his own amusement. Leading by example and as overheard from workplace gossip, Pietro was gunning for Tony Stark's now relinquished title as notorious womaniser. This, however, was one battle he wouldn't win.

As opposed to the fierce defense as expected of him, you're shocked at Pietro's compliant reply. He chuckles, “I would try harder next time.” A smile, genuine and soft, transforms his face. How significantly it compared from his usual arrogant fueled smirks, and testosterone leers. Your reply is delayed, thrown by his promise.

Something simmered beneath his projected arrogance and flirtatious behaviour, having seen a glimpse just now. Pietro Maximoff was an illusion of his own creation.

“At your own risk,” you manage the even reply. His eyes narrow as if to express that he would be game to do so and the anticipation surges through your blood.

“It would be worth it," he states, maintaining his dangerous fixation.

You fight between scoffing at his self-assured arrogance and smothering curious predictions about how he would earn your favour. The corner of his mouth twitches. With amusement, you can't say for sure but plead that you internal struggles have not been evident on your face. Thankfully, Pietro doesn't mock, breaking the moment as he rises and stands casually.

With ease, he reverts backs to his usual self, "Try not to miss me."

With a mock salute, he is gone from the room. A rush of wind and the evaporating silver wisps is all that remains of his presence. With a comeback prepped, it dies in your throat as you stare at the closing door

Regardless of the ping-pong like conversation, you are still left without an explanation for the random visit. It's difficult to ascertain if there was a hidden agenda in coming here. To understand the mind of the elder Maximoff Twin would exhaust you of what remaining energy you had left and don't attempt to even try...or so you lie to yourself

The evening passes with forced concentration to not think about what transpired and trying to interpret it's meaning. Since your official acquaintance weeks prior, (for you had never directly conversed with him before then, only seeing glances or traces), minimal thought was wasted on the Avenger after relaying the events to Darcy.

You give up then, blowing a forceful expiration between your lips. The only accomplishment would be a self-inflicted headache. You would classify it was another weird encounter with a Maximoff Twin and conclude that the likeliness of repeating tonight's odd events was in the lower percentages.

* * *

Four days pass. Four days of aloof attention and half-arsed productivity. It never passes conscious thought that the reason for your distraction was the enigmatic Maximoff. You hadn't returned to your retreat since the encounter, subconscious detriment that someone might be waiting.

With the eminent conclusion of your shift, you contemplate taking a post-work nap in the absence of an eventful evening. But that which is usually considered a self-indulged pleasure, instead surfaces guilt at the prospects of being unproductive outside of work too. Dacry is texted with the intention of asking about her availability for it was never assured that she would finish the same time everyday. Minutes tick by with no response. There is a flurry of movement as people make for post-work destinations. Joining the crowd, you allow yourself to be directed by bustling bodies.  

You halt, turning and trekking in the opposite direction energised crowd. It's not until you reach the doors of the lounge room and you realise your need to come here. You wet your lips, hand hovering above the handle.

Surely not.

On opening the doors, your eyes immediately pinpoint the suspected presence. Stalled in the doorway, you observe an inquisitive Pietro flipping through your book. This was no coincidence. All the questions that you had wrought over, nights prior flood your mind, impairing rational thought. In response, a random question is blurted from your disorganised mind.

“What are you doing?” The outburst startles you and but leaves your guest unaffected.

“Your book is boring,” he counters the question but otherwise alluding to his actions, attention never straying from the novel in-hand.

“I mean what are you doing _here_?” you elaborate, now able to form logical and direct thought. You breach the boundary of the room and step into the fold with the speedster. Marching forward, you collect the book and thereby removing further distraction.

You stand there, awaiting his reply. He watches with amusement and faked innocence.

“That depends...” the sentence trails. In response, an accusation swells in your chest, to tell him to stop avoiding your questions. Your retort in stalled when Pietro continues his explanation, “...on your availability,” he finishes.

“Oh.” Is all you manage, taken back. It was an ambiguous reply but a reply nonetheless. A torrent of more questions is created at the revealment. It's Pietro's turn to stand there awaiting your reply, amused by your reaction. After a prolong moment, you realise then that he expected clarification from you.

Darcy. You remember Darcy, who had yet to reply, who had yet to give you an honest excuse for being unavailable as you now knew Pietro wanted...hoped. To say otherwise would be an ill conceived lie that he would undoubtedly see. When you prolong your reply further, you remember your curiosity that so desperately needed to be sated: to know what he wanted.

“I've got time to kill,” you finally say, with a hint of trepidation.

"Is that so.” The Sokovian accent adds a threatening nature, stirring a flutter in your gut. “A convenient coincidence, no?”

“What makes you say that?”

“For I too have time to kill,” utilising the idiom. He purposely pauses, the ominous sentence producing tension in the room. “I recall correctly, had you not extended the offer to recommence our interrupted session.”

You frown in confusion. When you had seen him last, he had left voluntary. There was no interruption or session for that matter...oh.

“The massage?” you splutter, “that's what this is about?” His eyes laugh mirthlessly, finding your slow realisation apparently very funny. Of all things, this was the source for his company and playful combativeness. “Look, what I said, that was just a courteous remark in an awkward situation.”

It is his turn frown, coming to terms with your masked intention from that evening.

“You lied,” he says bluntly.

Well when you put it like that. You almost, _almost_ , feel guilty while observing his disheartened disposition.

“Umm, yea? I didn't' think you would ask," you reply sheepishly.

“But I am asking now,” he states.

On what grounds could you refuse him? Your evening was free, having not received your expecting text from Darcy. The experience had been mutually enjoyed and Pietro was so eager to experience it again at your hands. Besides being a tease and cocky shit, he hadn't demonstrated himself to be undeserving. There was also a suppressed longing to have him beneath your fingertips again, to have him succumb to your touch. Never had anyone reacted as he had. While the experience had freaked you out, it had intrigued you all the same.

“Do not worry about, Wanda. She knows I am here.” Renouncing an evening spent with his sister for they both were never long from each others company.You gape at the implication that Wanda knows were Pietro is and what the both of you will be doing – _might_ be doing.

“I would offer something in return,” he tries to entice you.

“There is nothing I want,” you firmly state. However, the denial you speak of is quickly giving way in anticipation of what form Pietro's favour would be. You very much doubt it would be free coffees.

“Everyone wants something.” His persistence unrelenting. Your battle concludes with a final thought that this will probably make for an interesting experience.

With an an exasperated huff, you surrender. “Argh, OK! Surprise me.”

His face instantly transforms, glee and triumph unabashedly displayed. Pietro's joy is contagious and you restrain yourself from smiling. Before you can ponder the next steps of events, Pietro beats you to it, skirting to the couch and sprawling out. It takes a blink of an eye to realised he has relocation himself.

“Wait! Not here!” you hiss. “Remember last time?” Hinting at the possibility of someone walking in on intimate session. Though you doubt he would care. Pietro and yourself take a moment to ponder a solution. Coincidentally, you look to each other with the same thought. Before you voice it -

“Your place or mine?” he gestures, his brow twitching with humour. Jutting your chin at the blatant innuendo, for a moment you scold whoever has been his bad influence since his move to America. His question is the easiest you have answered all night.

“Mine,” your voice non-negotiating and he nods in understanding. “And give me half an hour.” For you needed to makes some preparations and possibility rethink what you had agreed to. Before you can provide your on-base residential code, he is again, one step ahead.

“I will see you there,” he promises and is gone in a whirlwind.

* * *

In bound for your room, your mind is in heated debate. Why did he matter? Would the situation differ should another take his place? It's not difficult to narrow down your turmoil to a simple but annoying source: his attraction. It's a begrudging acceptance. It also highlights that said person and S.H.I.E.L.D's new bachelor would be in your room.

“That's totally not provocative,” you voice aloud.

Should you want to, not matter if it were last minute, you could withdraw your acceptance. In the meantime, in preparation, you would give him what he wanted and more. A full sensual treatment!

Forcefully closing your door, adrenaline jitters influencing the accidental action, you scout your room to determine the damage. Your bed was unmade, sheets strewn about; draws remained open and clothes scattered about which always resulted from long extended shifts. Quickly, you tidy the mess; stuffing clothes into cupboards or drawers but focus effort into making your bed. From there, you gathered tea candles from your bathroom, placing them on your dresser and bedside table. One larger candle would perfume the room. Lighting a match, enough time would allow for the aromatic scent to disperse.

With a few minutes to spare, you divulge in personal alterations; changing from your work clothes and choosing comfortable attire. Ready, you gaze at your reflection. You draw in a breath, holding steady. The flitting of nerves have calmed generously, allowing for resilience. You held the power here.

A knock breaks your concentration but you hold resilient, focused, unlike the past four days. Calmly you approach the door and open it to greet your guest. Wind whips your hair prompting you to turn around and acknowledge the rude entry. In the small space of your room, Pietro looks about with interest.

“Hi, please come in,” you say sarcastically.

“You would not want me standing outside your door too long, no?” He has a point. You purse your lips in reply, shutting the door. “Candles?” he questions, pointing to the display.

“I'm going all out.”

“In that case...”

Baffled, you watch as he removes his shirt, exposing his muscled upper body. He places the shirt on the back of a chair and turns to address your guppy faced impersonation. So much for resilience.

“...the shirt can stay on,” you protest weakly.

Pietro grins but makes no attempt to tease you, instead saying, “You said, 'All out'? My shoulders suffer much.” And he rolls them to emphasise.

“Fine, but nothing else,” gesturing to the rest of him and he laughs. “Get comfortable.” Suggesting to the pillow that has been positioned at the foot of the bed. Pietro doesn't hesitate while you acquire massage oil from the bathroom. He lounges on his side, head propped on a hand, watching your approach.

“I am all yours,” he says suggestively. You but blink, having foreseen him saying something of that nature. He was becoming predictable.

“Are you OK with that?” you inquire.

“Should I choose, I can relinquish control. But can you?” His inquisitive questions is startling and prompts you to consider it. You hadn't predict that.

“I'm not sure.” The answer is soft, spoken more to yourself than to him and he watches you intently. Further consideration of the in-depth question is brushed aside to focus on the task at hand: him.

“On your back,” you prompt. He follows obediently, placing his head on the edge of the pillow. While his position restricted some access, it would be temporary.

Your intention was to not have him submit as quickly as last time. This would be a drawn out and delicious process. As with every person, you commence with brushing his hair. Your fingers are snagged by the wind-lashed hair, having knotted in his furious movement. The comb, being one of the few items at your disposal, is brought to his scalp and you proceed to brushing from his deep regrowth through to their bleached lengths.

“No,” he interjects. You pause and frown at his rejection. “Your fingers.” The prompt encourages you to lay aside the comb and to recommence the task without its assistance.

With attentive concentration, each knot is carefully untangled, pulling threads from the knotted center. It's time consuming work, minutes dedicated to the task. A small smile tugs the corner of your mouth in satisfaction, combing your fingers through without obstruction.

“Onto your stomach.” While your voice is soft to maintain the relaxing mood, it's uttered with a commanding tone. Pietro movement is sluggish but follows immediately.

On his stomach provides easier access to the full mop of his chair, brushing through it again. He rests with his chin on his hands, eyes closed in sweet bliss. Your fingertips press against his scalp, searing your touch and stimulating his nerves. You imagine the hot, prickling sensation that should be trickling from his head, down and body wide.

Like last time, your fingers plow from the border of hair, trekking and meeting at an undetermined center. You repeat the technique, alternating between different areas, and focusing attention to provide the best experience.

Grabbing handfuls of hair, you pull with experienced accuracy to provide further stimulus. You muse to yourself that in future, should you need him to shut-up, it only required a handful of hair.

Minutes are uncountable as the you rotate through tugging and brushing the white mop. You stop, remembering that he had requested a shoulder massage. Getting to your feet, you ponder the easiest way in which to do such. Of the two, you settle the one in which you could test the waters.

Kneading the mattress with your knees, the dip and shifted gravity stirs Pietro from his slumber. Massage oil in hand, you lift a leg and reposition yourself above his lower back. Slowly, you lower yourself, nibbling your lip I'm anticipation of his reaction – should he be alert enough. Seated comfortably, you shift your weight. Pietro stirs again, turning his head to peer through heavy lidded eyes.

“W'you doin?” he slurs. The question is near indistinguishable through his sleep heavy accent.

“Shush,” Is all you reply. Pressing at his shoulder, the prompt urges him to lie down. Coating your hands in oil, you direct your focus. It would be guess work for you were no masseuse and which you repeatedly reminded people. This was beyond your scope of practice, having only provided light head massages. You only hope that Pietro wouldn't be requiring a physio due to your uneducated work.

His skin is flawless, fair and un-kissed by the sun. Your forefinger traces the dimples of his lower back, dipping into Venus mark. Marveling at the sculpted muscles, tentatively you reach forward to place your lubricated hands to his shoulders.

With persistent effort, the taunt muscles relax under the kneading technique. Your migrate to the flesh of his neck, traveling to the border of his hair line. Devotion blinds you to the minutes that pass. His shoulders now tenderised, you focus on the entirety of his back; applying more oil, your diligent efforts leave no area unattended.

Recollection of your refusal to extend service to Pietro's body, is absent of memory. Instead, the task dominates mind and action; molding, fingertips plowing the flesh of the exposed back, the heel of your hands rolling the matter out, around and back. Your hands alternate between applied pressure, forcing out the stress and strained muscle and finishing with soothing touches, balm to the abused body.

All the while, you listen to hums of pleasure, rumbling in the chest and breaking free past his lips. Certain areas illicit more from Pietro, and those places you greedily revisit just to hear him react to you. To have Pietro, vulnerable, weakened but willingly submitted brought satisfaction that confused you. One of Earth's mightiest Avengers: inhuman, super-powered, and maintaining the freedom of the common people, mattered not. It was that his man: arrogant, flirt, stubborn, all that could be faulted, had sought your person, your skills. He would shelf that that shielded his true self to seek and obtain his pleasures. As you had originally thought, Pietro Maximoff was not vulnerable and exposed, he had selected to reveal a side of him and entrust you.

In an unexpected paradox, he had dominated you: the hunt, cornering, and physical domination. In that order, every section of your person was unequivocally drawn and focused on him.

The meaningful musing stills your hands. You observe that Pietro has since rested his head against the pillow, the chosen angle revealing the side of his stubble face. At peace, he slumbers, features soft in unconscious naivety. The innocent beauty produces a strained smile, admitting to his influence on you. You were attracted to him, as previously established. Not even the first date and already you had him bear chested and beneath you. But what to do with him now? Still seated on-top of him, you ponder the next course of action; honestly, you hadn't thought that far ahead. Remembering last time, he hadn't awaken easily, not until Wanda's intervention.

'Well Wanda isn't here,' you think.

There was no knowing how long he would be out and you didn't intend to have him stay the night. That would bring all manner of trouble. The abundance of stimulus had knocked the guy out. You blink. The thought lingering. Perhaps, just perhaps, if stimulus had knocked him out, maybe it would also wake him. No further massaging would do, only prolong his sleepy state.

Supporting your weight with an arm, you lean to hover above him, centimeters from jaw slacked face.

“Pietro?” you whisper.

Nothing. Just as you had suspected. A little louder this time.

“Pietro.”

You watch his face, soft breaths brushing past his lips, your eyes trail the dark stubble of his jaw, adding character to the otherwise baby face. His usual expressive brows are relaxed and stationary, thick and umbrellaing the envied lashes of this shield eyes.

“Attractive shit,” you grumble.

Continuing the perusal of his face, an idea sparks both curiosity and a flutter of nerves. Acting on the idea, you brush the mop from his face, revealing the ear not crushed beneath the weight of his head. You stare at it while reviewing the formulated plan.

Again, you lean forward, a breath away from your sole target. Gently, you position the lobe of his ear between your rows of teeth. Applying cautious pressure, you nip the cartilage extremity.

“Hmm.”

You're shocked that the small stimulus has evoked a reaction. You repeat, tugging the ear lobe and watching for a similar reaction. Further oral stimulation ceases when his eyelids blink open to reveal hazed focus. He groans, stretching his confined arms, his body too, stretching and waking from the brief hibernation. Rolling a shoulder, he turns to address you, watching him with cautiously.

“Eh, it can not be time already?” he questions.

You wonder if the muted lighting tricked you in seeing a pout.

“I wasn't sure how long to leave you,” you admit.

He tries to turn his body over, rotating his torso, but the action is halted and he cocks an eyebrow in question.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

While the nature of question is genuine, the form in which a subtle smirk tugs at his lips would suggest otherwise. Before you can retort, exclaiming that you are in fact very comfortable, it's that you realise what makes you comfortable as he had questioned, is the very fact his body makes a suitable cushion.

The hot flush scales your face in physical resemblance of the embarrassment you now feel. In the candle illuminated room, you hope he can't define the difference in colour that paints your face. You square your shoulder in preparation of your reply.

“Yes.”

The reply is confident, hoping to through Pietro, yet it does little. The subtlety of his amusement breaks free in the rumbling chuckle accompanied with a full-blown grin. Every time. Every time you aimed at gaining higher ground, he surpassed you.

“Then I would not deny you.” The severity of his gaze stalls you only to be shaken when he encourages you to remove you weight, allowing him to reposition onto his back. Thinking you have overstayed your welcome, you rise.

“No.”

For the second time that evening, he has objected to your actions. He chooses not elaborate, only his penetrative gaze piercing you in place. Holding the stare, you sink to your knees again, flush against his waist. Before the moment can breed an awkward atmosphere, the intensity of Pietro's face relaxes to stare through heavy lidded eyes, comfortable in new found position.

“You bit me?” he asks with thoughtful expression, as if reliving the moment.

You squander another wave of embarrassment. He question puts you at risk of honesty and exposing yourself to ridicule and you summaries at after recent events, you’re both beyond that now.

“Actually, I would describe it as a nibble, not that technicality matters.”

“For what purpose?”

“I speculated whether a different type of stimulus would waken you and considering the ears erogenous sensitivity-” Dramatically you pause mid-sentence, reviewing what was just said. Of all descriptive terminology, you just had to say ‘erogenous’. You want to plank your head against something and chant internally that Pietro has, a) never heard the word before, or b) missed your stumble. But that would be asking too much.

“Erogenous?” The Sokovian accent stumbles over the pronunciation, tasting each syllable and you cringe at how easily one word can affect you so.

“Pleasurable.” It's a 'G' rated answer but not failing to provide Pietro with the answer he seeks.

“How can you be so sure?” he blatantly challenges you, quirking an eyebrow.

Had this not been the first time to be challenged, you would have debated profusely. You can imagine the the embarrassed refusal, his persistent and coy beckoning. The permission he had granted intensified the moment, the thrum of your nerves palpable. He lay beneath you, awaiting the conclusion of your tussling thoughts. His whim, yours to command, should you want to.

It wasn't a question, not as he has asked before, yet neither was it a command. A prompt, encouragement. The only answer you provide is to lean down towards him, gazes locked before it's broken when your attention is redirected to his ear again. Removing his hair, teasingly, your breath tickles the nape of his neck and shell of his ear. A shudder vibrates across the prone body, receptive to the touch.

As before, the lobe of his ear is kneaded between your teeth, teasing the delicacy of the flesh. The flick of your tongue serves as a fleeting distraction before the intended onslaught. You bite down, grinding the surrendered lobe. The sudden attack manifests a response from your victim, a deep rumble. It's the encouragement of your actions so far, prompting to further your domination. You follow it's curvature, feeling the collagen hardened shell with every nip. The ever present rumble morphs into a groan, the bed shifting with Pietro's withering body in response to the oral stimulation.

Your nipping escalates, maiming his ear with imprints of your teeth. All the while, Pietro writhes under your restraint, however, not ashamed to vocalise the pleasure at your hands – or mouth. You wonder, in your own hazed pleasure, if your actions resembled that of a dog wrestling with an object of territorial need. The thought prompts you to pull at his ear, fighting the resistance of the attached extremity. A gasp of pain disguised pleasure stretches your expression in a satisfied smile but alerts you to relent. The cessation of the assault encourages you to leave soothing kisses, his ear seared with hot affection. The traumatised flesh of his lobe is engulfed within the warmth of your mouth. Your tongue, balm to his tenderised flesh, traces the border of Peitro ear with cruel leisure. Once at the crest, you leave a final nip to serve as a reminder for what you have provided.

You sit back, marginally, to behold the pleasure ridden face. Not blissful like he was under the power of your hands, but mouth gaping and brows furrowed exhaustion. His chest heaves with quickened breaths and pink, dusts his cheeks with colour. You watch as his breathing slows, face slack. Heavy lidded, his eyes open, dazed with unfocused view of the ceiling. It takes him another moment to orientate himself to his surroundings and your evident but subtle satisfaction.

“Erogenous,” he agrees.

It serves as a confirmation for your earlier use of the word when describing the potential properties of his ear. You respond with a huff of laughter, considering it a compliment for your efforts. You observe a change in him, now critically analysing you as witnessed in previous encounters. Surprising, you aren't unnerved by his assessment, but stare back, waiting for the possibility of a question. While only few, the exchanged encounters has formed a familiarity between yourself and him, acutely aware of a growing comfortability.

“Do you prefer me like this?” he asks.

Strain from feverish vocalisation has left his voice husky, which in turn amplifies the strength of his accent. You keep the established connection locked as you consider his question. You can't be sure of his meaning but interpret it as questioning your preference of dominating him; to satisfy a denied craving and use your abilities to bring him under submission.

“It's the only way in which I'm familiar.”

The half truth is obvious, his eyes narrowing at your response. Your lips remained parted, ready for the elaborated explanation that you know is to come. Because you wanted him to know and guessed that he too, already knew it.

You let your actions speak for themselves, leaning forward to hold your face above his. Your hand snakes up the side of his head to brush his untamed fringe. The action is delicate and subtle and to reveal your answer. Hair laces between your fingers, you fist a hold and pull back, encouraging Pietro to tilt his head. Your grasp is in no way painful but signifies your intent and meaning. Pietro is limp within your hold and willing to commanded.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He smirks, triumphant with your answer. You jerk your hold in response, chastising his cocky behaviour. The urge to kiss him threatens to overpower your self control. The need to claim lips, to dominate him again in another form. You muse that he wouldn't be opposed, guessing that he may be awaiting such and has steered you in that direction. You clench your teeth in frustration of the internal battle. Leaning back, arms length from him, you jerk his head one time before releasing him from your hold.

“I think that's enough fun for one evening.” Dismissing further possibilities that could easily arise (pun intended) from your shared activities.

“But should we not discuss payment,” he says with forced severity. You frown, questioning his motives. The movement is too quick to comprehend, finding yourself repositioned on your back with an 'ooph'. You blink several times, re-orientating yourself. Pietro looms above, eyes laughing. He dips his head and you feel the radiation of your bodies and the breath against your ear.

"I can relinquish control. But can you?” Its a repeat of what he had said earlier, which you had so easily disregarded. He pulls back, his face lacking all form of arrogance that you had grown accustomed to.

“Let go,” he says. Recognition of his intention is abundantly clear when you feel his hand clasp your waist, stealthy bypassing your shirt. It's a shock, your body freezing at the touch and your eyes widening. Your skin prickles as the intruder travels across your stomach, his ghosting fingertips sending shivers body wide.

To experience what he had. To give in and trust in another. Your roles were revered. There is no objection from you, only want, excitement and fear.

His locked gaze intensifies, as if in preparation for his next move. Your breathing has quickened and your nerves electrify with the prolonged connection. Instantly you determined the destination of Peitro's wandering hand. Leaving the plain of your stomach, it passing the mound of thicket and with no hesitation, slip between your folds. Wet and warm, a lone finger tests the slick area, sliding up and down.

“Would I be wrong by saying, I was not alone in my enjoyment?” he murmurs, the rhetorical question suggesting evidence of your arousal.

Despite your wavering state of control, you manage, albeit struggle, to construct a jibe. “I imagine you are wrong a majority of the time.”

Pietro tsks in response to the snarky comment and adopts an altered version of punishment, as previously demonstration by yourself. He chastises you by pressing against your sensitive bud, making you jolt in response.

Your abdomen dips and rises with every breath, illustrating your bodies reception to Pietro's touch and in-turn, he feasts upon his influence, craving to inflict more. The pad of his finger doesn't cease, circling and stimulating the nerve sensors, your breath hitching in response. His finger dives to breach your warm depths, cushioned by the surrounding muscular walls, clenching in response to the intrusion. There it doesn't stay long, withdrawing and bringing more slick on it's exit. Pietro intentionally drags the acquired slick, lubricating the length of your folds to play with your clit again.

His techniques changes between circling the circumference of the area, to applying pressure against the ripened bulb and with subtle movement, presses and strokes it.

You twitch and tighten under Pietro's touch, eyes squeezed tight and mouth gaping. Lazily, Pietro continues to play, greedily watching your expression, strained with pleasure. With critical observation, he analyses your climbing peak, waiting for the time to strike.

Your eyes shoot open, throwing your head forward with a gasp. Through your dazed lust, you manage to comprehend Pietro's use of his inhuman ability, subjected to the unrelenting attack.

He uses his power in segments, a couple a seconds separating his super-charged attack and ceasing. You moan, feeling the building tension, thighs tightening, hands grasping the sheets in an effort to ground yourself.

Pietro sees the crest of your climax and unleashes an unstoppable assault. The feeling compresses until the feeling is unbearable and finally it explodes. A yell escapes your throat, signifying your climax and still Pietro continues. Waves of indescribable pleasure cascades from the source of stimulus, and all you can do it writhe and cry out in response. You don't know when Pietro stopped, unable to comprehend anything but relishing in the post orgasmic glow. Lung fulls of air are gulped and perspiration glistens on your forehead, twinkling from the candle light. Your body relaxes with a visible slump, limbs heavy leaded and impossible to move. Pietro lies beside you, head propped up in attention. You feel unmade by the experience. In your current state you can't define whether it was your orgasm or at Pietro's hand.

You think to yourself that he had certainly surprised you, just as you had asked but not what you expected. With forced effort, you direct your attention to your bed guest, finding him contemplative. He seems please with himself, but no more than you had been given your turn. You find the perfect way in which to express your appreciation for his effort.

“You have magic fingers,” you say blissfully. He smiles, recognising the adoption of his descriptive words.

"Not a coffee but a surprise, no?" he says with amusement.

"It's now my preferred method of payment."

In response, you both share an amused laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now hate writing 'sexy' scenes. Please forgive this atrocity.
> 
> So there you have it. Despite no intention of writing a sequel, WHAMBAM, I was struck with an idea while rereading a suggestion from a comment from the first chapter. So Sub/Dom Pietro was created. What even is this?!

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I just typed this for shits and giggles but if it were canon, Wanda would sooth Pietro every night by just brushing his hair with her fingers. So the idea evolved from that. The techniques I lamely described are ones that I use and I shit you not, son, it fucking works! Also, the title was inspired by those head massage devices with the skinny spider like legs. Worth every cent, I swear.
> 
> Happy reading


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